


Blink of an Eye

by chibistarlyte



Series: As You Wish [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, Wishes, at least for now, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over two years ago, Sherlock made a wish at a fountain. He never actually expected it to come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of my Sherlock wish!fic series. This particular installment will contain two chapters. You'll want to read the first installment, Where the Angels Sit, in order to understand this story.
> 
> There will eventually be Johnlock in this fic series, though I won't tell you when. :3 It's a slow development.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful friend and beta Aki. Like Sherlock would be lost without his blogger, I'd be lost without her.
> 
> Musical inspiration for this chapter is Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen (shut up it's cute okay?).
> 
> Enjoy!

The last time he’d been to the fountain was that fateful—was fateful even the right word? Sherlock wasn’t sure—night he’d met John. To say that the encounter had changed his life, true as it was, would be a gross understatement. In the two years following the pivotal event, Sherlock managed to finally get his act together. With the help of Scotland Yard’s Sergeant Lestrade and, begrudgingly, Mycroft, the ex-junkie took his first steps along the road to sobriety. It was a long, agonizing, arduous journey, but he’d come out on top in the end. Now the track marks on his arm were nothing but faded scars, little blemishes on his too-pale skin that reminded him of where he used to be and how far he’d climbed from his lowest point.

And tonight, he’d just helped the Met wrap up a rather nasty double homicide. It was his first _official_ case as a self-proclaimed consulting detective, and it’d been a major success—not that he had any doubt it would be anything but. He was certain that his aid and expertise tonight practically guaranteed Lestrade a promotion in the very near future. Of course that wasn’t to say that the policeman’s career was his top priority—that slot belonged to both curing his boredom and putting his mind to practical use.

The adrenaline of the chase still buzzed and thrummed through his veins; he had some energy to burn before he’d allow himself to crash, and his feet led him there, to where it all started. The fountain itself hadn’t changed since he’d last seen it. A solid, eternal entity in his slowly changing life. Left as it was, just as he’d expected even after all this time.

One thing he did not expect to find, however, was a lone figure in a dark green coat and jeans sitting on the edge of the fountain, concentrating way too hard on the water.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

_John?_

It took barely three seconds for Sherlock’s analyzing eyes to gather all the information he needed to determine the man’s identity, but he still had a difficult time believing what he saw. He didn’t doubt his senses, because they hadn’t been wrong often, but rather the probability of the situation at hand. Statistics ran through his already taxed, sleep-deprived brain, calculating the chances that he would happen to see John again in the same location they’d met by complete chance the first time around, on an arbitrarily-chosen evening so long after the initial acquaintance more than twenty-four months ago.

But John was here, in the flesh, defying all of Sherlock’s previous notions of fate and wishes.

The solider didn’t seem to notice the consulting detective’s deliberate approach, lost in his own little world by the looks of it. Silently, Sherlock placed himself beside John, still standing, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets.

“Contemplating another wish?”

John nearly fell off his perch and onto the ground. Instead, he reigned in his surprise and looked up at the dark-haired man looming above him. His previously impassive face immediately lit up and his lips quirked into a small smile, one that Sherlock slowly mimicked.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said, cheerfully and still slightly awestruck. Clearly he had come to the same numerical and probable conclusion Sherlock had in regards to their chances at ever meeting again, especially here. At least they were together in their surprise and bafflement.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock finally said, taking a seat next to the solider on the cold stone ledge of the fountain.

“Fancy seeing you here,” John said. “Out for another late night stroll?”

“More or less,” Sherlock responded with a nod. “The same for you, yes?”

“Mhm.” John’s shoulders rolled and hunched, the muscles stretching taut beneath the heavy fabric of his coat. Sherlock regarded the motion with more interest than he’d ever given a dead body.

And then, because he absolutely could not help himself, he blurted out, “You’re trying to avoid someone.”

That same look of shocked amazement when Sherlock had deduced John’s career a couple years back now took residence on John’s face once again, followed by a strange sort of grin—one that wasn’t necessarily embarrassed or bashful, but almost disbelieving in its quality. “You’re right,” he admitted, to which Sherlock smirked. Of course he was right; he was rarely wrong.

The inquiry of “Dinner?” fell out of his mouth before his mind even had the chance to acknowledge the thought.

Much to his delight and slight astonishment, John readily accepted the offer.

 

.

 

The Chinese restaurant where Sherlock ended up taking John was one of the most hole-in-the-wall, severely underrated eating establishments in London. Sherlock preferred it over many other places because of its relatively invisible and unknown existence. The coziness and quietude of the place had a wondrous calming effect on his chaotic brain. Plus, when he actually bothered to nourish himself, the food was actually quite good.

“So, you’re a detective?” John asked after swallowing down a spoonful of egg drop soup.

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected as he nibbled at the end of a spring roll. “I invented the job myself, making me the only one in the world.”

“And you use your deductive powers at crime scenes to help the police?”

“Precisely.”

John slid his now empty bowl aside and folded his hands in his lap. “So…deduce me. I want to see how you think. How did you know I was trying to avoid someone?”

Sherlock stilled, setting his spring roll back on the plate a few moments later with slow, calculated movements. For the first time in…well, probably ever, he was nervous to share his brilliance. He was getting on so well with John. Why ruin it by saying something that the man might find offensive? It was also…odd that he was being so considerate of John’s feelings.

But then again…when he’d rattled off his observations about John over two years ago, he was met with praise rather than the usual disdain. And John looked so earnest in his request, so eager to hear what Sherlock had to say.

Besides, Sherlock was feeling that compulsive need to show off for his new friend, fluff his colourful tail feathers like a peacock; being a show-off, he’d never been able to bite back that insistent urge.

He took a deep breath, locking his gaze with John’s before he began. “The bags under your eyes say you haven’t been getting much sleep, which is odd considering you’re on leave at the moment and should be using this time to rest. Your shoulders were very tense when I first saw you, and though you’ve relaxed a bit in my company you’re still rather stiff. You were also thinking deeply about something while at the fountain, as was obvious by the near-scowl that was settled on your face. That points to disappointment, perhaps frustration. Also, the fact that you were in the park this late at night suggests you were trying to get away from something, or someone. You aren’t satisfied with where you’re staying presently, but you feel like you have to put up with it because you’ve nowhere else to go otherwise. I’d wager you’re staying with a sibling, most likely your brother, but the two of you don’t get on very well, hence your earlier sour demeanor and your avoidant tendencies.”

It wasn’t until Sherlock finished with his deductions that John finally looked away, aiming a hard stare at the tabletop. The silence hung tense and heavy between them, even when the waitress brought them their plates of steaming Chinese cuisine. Neither of them were that particularly interested in their food.

Finally, John let out a small breath of a laugh. “Sister,” he said, looking up at Sherlock once more, a strangely sad smile on his lips. “I’m staying with my sister and her fiancée.”

“Always something,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, though he couldn’t hide the small, lopsided smirk that made its way onto his mouth. “Did I get everything else right?”

John nodded. “Yeah. It’s hard to sleep when Harry and Clara are having one of their rows,” he admitted, picking up his pair of chopsticks to poke at his rice. “But Harry’s my only family. No one else to stay with.”

Sherlock was swirling his lo mein around his plate with his fork when suddenly a finger came into his line of vision, inching closer to his face. He immediately backed away on reflex.

“Hold still,” John ordered, and Sherlock did as he was told. He felt John’s rough fingertip caress his cheekbone and shivered at the fleeting touch. His eyes fluttered open—wait, when had he even closed them?—and he tilted his head to the side, wondering what on earth John was doing staring so curiously at his finger.

“Eyelash,” the blond said, holding the tiny hair out to Sherlock. “It was on your cheek.”

“And you’re showing it to me why?”

John chuckled, and Sherlock decided he could never grow tired of the sound. “You’re supposed to make a wish on it.”

A dark brow raised incredulously as Sherlock eyed the eyelash still resting on John’s fingertip. How banal and stupid, making a wish on something as ridiculous as an eyelash.

Still…Sherlock’s first ever wish to see John again had come true. What harm could it do to make another?

With a little puff of air from pursed lips, the eyelash flew off to God knew where. Sherlock wished for more time. More time to spend with John, because it had been so long since he’d genuinely enjoyed the company of another person—an actual living person, not a dead body—and perhaps with time, John could become someone Sherlock considered…a _friend_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of agony, basically because this is like...necessary filler/groundwork that's going to be setting things up for the rest of this fic series.
> 
> I also decided to add in an extra chapter after this one, so there'll be a smoother transition from this fic to the next. It's being beta'd right now, and should be up soon!
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta Aki. How she puts up with my bullshit, I'll never know. In addition, this has not been Brit-picked. Any Americanisms and general errors are entirely my own fault.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was two in the morning when Sherlock and John were finally kicked out of the restaurant on account of it being closing time. The loss of a comfortable place to sit and chat didn't deter them, though. Instead they wandered the streets of London together, just enjoying each other's company when their chatter finally died off. Sherlock thought he'd have gotten tired of John hours ago, but such wasn't the case. He was baffled and pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. Not only did he like having John around, but John seemed content to have Sherlock around as well.

They came up on Montague Street, where Sherlock currently resided. He counted each step they took leading to the block of flats where he lived, dread creeping into his guts. Once John realized they'd reached Sherlock's home, he'd politely bid Sherlock good night and that would be that.

Sherlock would _not_ let that happen. He'd wished for more time with John, and he was not going to let the man go so easily.

They came to a stop at the front door leading into the building. John looked at Sherlock with questioning eyes, standing at parade rest on the sidewalk.

Sherlock went over his options. He could invite John up to his place, offer the man a place to sleep for the night—that was, if John didn't mind staying in what really wasn't more than a bedsit. He could grab John and drag him up to the flat himself, but the detective suspected that if he got forceful, John was more than capable of fighting back. He could try and use reason, convince John to stay with him to avoid getting into further rows with his sister.

In the end, Sherlock decided to forego all of those options and settled for something completely different. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and stared at John expectantly.

The easy expression on the soldier's face fell a bit, tinged with confusion and uncertainty. His eyes darted back and forth a few times between Sherlock and the open door, and he tilted his head in inquiry.

"It's late," Sherlock said simply, remaining stock still and continuing to hold the door open.

John—wonderful, brilliant, John—took the hint and, with a smile and a nod, entered the building. Sherlock followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

.

"No. There's no way I am using your bed."

"But John, you are my guest. Isn't it customary to allow guests to use the bed and the host sleep on the sofa?"

"Well, generally, but…"

"Problem?"

Silence fell, John staring up at Sherlock and Sherlock staring right back down at John. So, a battle of wills. Good thing Sherlock was excellent at those.

Yet John continued to surprise him, because the little man didn't back down for a second.

After a few minutes, Sherlock finally conceded. He didn't want to upset John or chase him off over some stupid argument concerning sleeping arrangements. Besides, John held out a lot longer than he'd expected. That alone justified Sherlock throwing in the towel. "Fine. You may take the sofa, if you insist."

A tiny, triumphant grin tugged at John's lips. Victory was his, but only for now. Sherlock would get back at him, somehow. "Have you got an extra blanket?"

"Mm, in the linen cupboard," Sherlock said, gesturing to his pathetic excuse for a hallway that led to his bedroom and the loo. "You can take a pillow from my bed, as well."

"Ta," John said, already on his way to gather what he needed for his temporary camp-out on Sherlock's sofa.

Letting out a breath, Sherlock ruffled his curls and watched tiny dandruff flakes sprinkle down like snow. He was starting to get sleepy, his adrenaline high finally wearing off. There was little fuel left in his system beyond that, and he knew the pending crash was inevitable. He still felt antsy, though. Excited for some strange reason. He'd never had a guest sleep over before, at least not in his adult life. This was all so new to him, but sort of familiar. Almost like the eagerness he felt when he had a puzzle to solve or a case to work on, but different in some way.

Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts when John came meandering back into the room, blanket and pillow in tow. He assumed John would be wanting to get some sleep now, and it would probably be in his own best interest to get some rest as well considering he'd been chasing down a criminal only hours ago. Had it been just mere hours? He felt like it had been much longer than that. It seemed that John's presence skewed his sense of time.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock tugged at the hem of his jacket. "I suppose I shall let you, erm, sleep, then," he ground out awkwardly. He fought the urge to start randomly tidying up the room, littered with books and papers and God knew what else.

"Uh, yes. Sure," was John's own awkward response. His grip tightened on the pillow and blanket in his hands, fingers curling into the fabric. He remained standing, eyes seeking out anything to look at that wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't keep his eyes off John.

"Well." Sherlock cleared his throat again. Why was it so difficult to swallow all of a sudden? "Good night, John."

"'Night, Sherlock," John replied with a small smile, finally looking up at the consulting detective.

Sherlock lingered for a few more moments before taking his leave to the bedroom, clicking off the light on his way.

.

Not even fifteen minutes later, Sherlock wandered out from his room to the small living area. He'd done nothing but toss and turn the moment he fell onto the mattress, and even though he was knackered beyond belief, he couldn't get his mind to just shut up for five bloody seconds. It kept screaming at him, reminding him that there was someone sleeping on his sofa and that said person had _willingly_ agreed to stay and wow Sherlock was actually _making friends with someone_ and _how was any of this even happening?_

"Can't sleep?" came a voice from the lump on the sofa.

Keeping silent, Sherlock just hung back against the wall like a creeper. He half wanted to disappear into the shadows. The other half wanted to curl up on one end of the sofa and just talk to John.

As if they hadn't done enough talking that evening already.

But there was still _so much_ Sherlock wanted to say, now that he finally had someone who would _listen._

"Can't sleep," the genius finally confessed, leaning all his weight against the white-washed wall with stains he didn't even want to think about the origin of.

Under the minimal light coming in from the window, he could barely see the sofa lump moving until John was sitting upright, curled into the arm on the far side, his blanket pooled around his waist. "There's room for two," he said with a pat on the cushion. Sherlock took the invitation and slumped over to the sofa to join John.

Silence stretched on for a while, interrupted every now and again by some noise from outside, or John letting out a particularly loud exhale, or Sherlock fiddling with the fraying edges of the blanket. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, though. It was soothing. Almost…reassuring. Having been alone for so long, Sherlock didn't think another person's presence could have such a calming effect on him. Hell, he normally went out of his way to avoid contact with others because he couldn't stand people in general.

John was different, though. Sherlock had known that since the moment they met two years ago.

"Listen, Sherlock," John said suddenly, looking the detective straight in the eye. "I…really appreciate you letting me stay for the night. It's really very kind of you." His lips quirked into a grateful grin.

"It's no trouble," Sherlock said, in a voice much quieter than he'd originally intended. "Your company is…nice."

It took him by surprise when Sherlock found himself smiling too.

And if John spent the remainder of his leave with Sherlock, well, neither of them was complaining.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand now for the little epilogue-ish-thing-that-isn't-really-an-epilogue chapter. My original plan was to have this scene part of chapter two, but it just didn't feel right with the placement. So here it is. I'm glad to finally have this done; now I can start on the next fic in the series. I've been looking forward to writing Sherlock and John's letters to each other for a long time.
> 
> Musical inspiration for this chapter is the song "When Can I See You Again?" by Owl City, from the Wreck-It Ralph soundtrack. It's an adorable song.
> 
> Quick question for my readers: would any of you be interested in little side fics that go along with this series, like snippets of what Sherlock and John did during the week of John's leave, certain scenes from John's POV, etc.? I was thinking about writing a few later on.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta Aki! Still hasn't been Brit-picked. Any Americanisms and general errors are my own fault. I also apologize if I got any minor details about LHR incorrect. I looked into maps of the airport and such, so I hope I didn't fudge it up much.
> 
> Enjoy!

A week later found both Sherlock and John outside Heathrow. They were stood off to the side of one of the entrances to Terminal 1, John in uniform and clutching the handle of his travelling bag a little too tightly. Sherlock towered over him, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. Time was ticking by, and John had to get going or he was going to miss his flight. Sherlock knew that, but he didn't want to say goodbye just yet. Even after spending an entire week with John—an incredible, delightful, splendid week—he still felt as if their time was being cut short. He desperately wished John could stay, but he knew that was an impossibility.

"Guess this is it," John said sullenly, shoulders tense and gaze aimed at the ground.

"You make it sound so final," Sherlock said, voice quiet and unsure. His gloved hands clenched in his pockets.

John let out a breath of a laugh and looked up at Sherlock. "It could be, you know."

Oh, and did Sherlock know. John was being shipped back to a war zone. Of course there was a chance that he wouldn't be coming back. Being a doctor, though, John would most likely remain on base the majority of the time, and thus out of the way of most of the danger. Small mercies, Sherlock thought. He didn't want to think about the prospect of never seeing his new friend again. He wanted to tell John to be more positive, but he refrained. Sherlock was never optimistic unless he was completely sure he was right.

Instead, he just asked, "You'll write me, won't you?"

"Of course." At that, John smiled a little. "Maybe I'll even call you when I can."

Sherlock bristled. He detested talking on the phone.

For John, though, he could definitely make an exception.

"I'd best be off," John said after a few wordless moments. "Sherlock, I…I can't thank you enough for this past week. It's been great."

"It certainly has been," Sherlock agreed with a perfunctory nod. "You are more than welcome to stay with me again, the next time you're on leave."

"Ta, mate. I might take you up on the offer."

"The pleasure would be mine."

Smiling, John held out his hand and the two shook on it. Sherlock had trouble finding the courage to let go.

"Bye, Sherlock. Be seeing you," John said. As he turned to head inside, Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Wait, John!"

Confused, John allowed Sherlock to pull him back around. He raised a brow and tilted his head. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Without warning, Sherlock poked his index finger at John's face and swiped it down a tanned cheek. A smirk played across his lips as he leaned in closer, holding his leather-clad fingertip face-up between their faces. "Eyelash," he said.

John let out a laugh, pausing in thought before blowing the tiny lash off Sherlock's finger.

"What did you wish for?" Sherlock asked curiously, staring right into John's eyes. This close, he noticed small specks of brown scattered amongst the deep blue hue of his irises.

"Can't tell you, remember? It won't come true if I do," John reminded him with a poke to his chest.

"Right. Right…" Taking a deep inhale through his nostrils, Sherlock backed away and stood tall and proud. "Well, whatever it is, I hope it comes true."

John murmured a small thanks and another goodbye, this one much more final. Expression hardened and resolute, he turned and headed for the doors, leaving Sherlock behind him.

For a long while, Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, staring off in the direction John had gone. The more time passed, the more he felt the gaping hole in his chest grow even larger. He'd never felt such an emptiness before, almost crippling in its intensity. And John probably wasn't even airborne yet.

This was going to be a rough year.

Still, Sherlock mused, finally heading off to hail a cab, his two wishes had come true. He'd seen John again, and he was able to spend an entire week with him before the doctor had to return to work. It should have been enough, but Sherlock wanted more. More time, more chances, more _John_. But John was needed in Afghanistan, just like Sherlock was needed here in London. They each had their duties to uphold, and he was well aware of that. He would still miss John terribly, though.

As soon as he returned home, he was going to write his first letter to John.


End file.
